Ken Follett - World Without End

To his astonishment, Philemon began to cry.

“For the love of the saints,” Godwyn said disgustedly. “Stop this nonsense – you’re a grown man!”

Philemon continued to sob. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“If you don’t stop that-” Godwyn checked himself. Nothing was to be gained by berating Philemon. The man was truly pathetic. Speaking more gently, he said: “Try to pull yourself together. Where is the ruby?”

“I hid it.”

“Yes…”

“In the refectory chimney.”

Godwyn immediately turned away, heading for the refectory. “Mary save us, it could fall into the fire!”

Philemon followed, his tears drying. “There’s no fire in August. I would have moved it before the cold weather.”

They entered the refectory. At one end of the long room was a wide fireplace. Philemon put his arm up the chimney and fumbled for a moment. Then he produced a ruby the size of a sparrow’s egg, covered with soot. He wiped it clean on his sleeve.

Godwyn took it. “Now come with me,” he said.

“What are we going to do?”

“Simeon is going to find this.”

They went to the church. Simeon was still searching on hands and knees. “Now,” Godwyn said to Philemon. “Try to remember exactly where you were when you picked up the crucifix.”

Simeon looked at Philemon and, seeing signs of emotion on his face, spoke kindly to him. “Don’t be afraid, lad, you’ve done nothing wrong.”

Philemon positioned himself on the east side of the crossing, close to the steps leading up to the chancel. “I think it was here,” he said.

Godwyn climbed the two steps and looked under the choir stalls, pretending to search. Surreptitiously, he placed the ruby under one of the rows of seats, close to the near end, where it was not visible to a casual glance. Then, as if changing his mind about the likeliest place to look, he moved to the south side of the chancel. “Come and search under here, Philemon,” he said.

As he had hoped, Simeon then moved to the north side and got down on his knees to look under the stalls, murmuring a prayer as he did so.

Godwyn expected Simeon to see the ruby immediately. He pretended to search the south aisle, waiting for Simeon to find it. He began to think there must be something wrong with Simeon’s eyesight. He might have to go over there and ‘find’ it himself. Then at last Simeon called out: “Oh! Here!”

Godwyn pretended to be excited. “Have you found it?”

“Yes! Hallelujah!”

“Where was it?”

“Here – under the choir stalls!”

“Praise be to God,” said Godwyn.

Godwyn told himself not to be frightened of Earl Roland. As he climbed the stone stairs of the hospital to the guest rooms, he asked himself what the earl could do to him. Even if Roland had been capable of getting out of his bed and drawing a sword, he would not be foolish enough to attack a monk within the precincts of a monastery – even a king would hardly get away with that.

Ralph Fitzgerald announced him, and he went into the room.

The earl’s sons stood either side of the bed: tall William, in soldierly brown hose and muddy boots, his hair already receding from his forehead; and Richard, in bishop’s purple, his growing roundness of figure evidence of a sybaritic nature and the means to indulge it. William was thirty, a year younger than Godwyn; he had his father’s strength of will, but it was sometimes softened by the influence of his wife, Philippa. Richard was twenty-eight, and presumably took after his late mother, for he had little of the earl’s imposing bearing and forcefulness.

“Well, monk?” said the earl, speaking out of the left side of his mouth. “Have you held your little election?”

Godwyn suffered a moment of resentment for this discourteous form of address. One day, he vowed silently, Roland would call him Father Prior. Indignation gave him the courage he needed to tell the earl the news. “We have, lord,” he said. “I have the honour to tell you that the monks of Kingsbridge have chosen me as their prior.”

“What?” the earl bellowed. “You?”

Godwyn bowed his head in an affectation of humility. “No one could be more surprised than I.”

“You’re nothing but a boy!”

The insult stung Godwyn into a rejoinder. “I’m older than your son, the bishop of Kingsbridge.”

“How many votes did you get?”

“Twenty-five.”

“And how many for Friar Murdo?”

“None. The monks were unanimous-”

“None?” Roland roared. “There must have been a conspiracy – this is treason!”

“The election was held in strict accordance with the rules.”

“I don’t care a pig’s prick for your rules. I won’t be ignored by a bunch of effeminate monks.”

“I am the choice of my brothers, my lord. The inauguration ceremony will be held this coming Sunday, before the wedding.”

“The monks’ choice must be ratified by the bishop of Kingsbridge. And I can tell you he will not ratify you. Rerun the election, and this time bring me the result I want.”

“Very good, Earl Roland.” Godwyn went to the door. He had several more cards in his hand, but he was not going to lay them on the table all at once. He turned and addressed Richard. “My lord bishop, when you wish to speak to me about this, you will find me in the prior’s house.”

He stepped outside. “You’re not the prior!” Roland shouted as he shut the door.

Godwyn was trembling. Roland was formidable, especially when angry, and he was often angry. But Godwyn had stood his ground. Petranilla would be proud of him.

He went down the stairs on shaky legs and made his way to the prior’s house. Carlus had already moved out. For the first time in fifteen years, Godwyn would have a bedroom to himself. His pleasure was only slightly damped by having to share the place with the bishop, who traditionally stayed there while visiting. The bishop was, technically, the abbot of Kingsbridge ex officio and, though his power was limited, his status was above that of the prior. Richard was rarely in the house during the day, but returned every night to sleep in the best bedroom.

Godwyn entered the ground-floor hall and sat in the big chair, waiting. It would not be long before Bishop Richard appeared, his ears burning with his father’s scorching instructions. Richard was a rich and powerful man, but not frightening in the way the earl was. All the same, it was a bold monk who defied his bishop. However, Godwyn had an advantage in this confrontation, for he knew something shameful about Richard, and that was as good as a knife up his sleeve.

Richard bustled in a few minutes later, showing a confidence that Godwyn knew to be faked. “I’ve struck a bargain for you,” he said without preamble. “You can be sub-prior under Murdo. You’ll be in charge of day-to-day management of the priory. Murdo doesn’t want to be an administrator, anyway – he just wants the prestige. You’ll have all the power, but my father will be satisfied.”

“Let me get this straight,” said Godwyn. “Murdo agrees to make me his sub-prior. Then we tell the rest of the monks that he is the only one you’ll ratify. And you think they will accept that.”

“They have no choice!”

“I have an alternative suggestion. Tell the earl that the monks will not have anyone but me – and that I must be ratified before the wedding, otherwise the monks will not take part in the nuptials. The nuns, too, will refuse.” Godwyn did not know whether the monks would go along with this – let alone Mother Cecilia and the nuns – but he was too far gone for caution.

“They wouldn’t dare!”

“I’m afraid they would.”